Last night, my mom fell and broke her arm. The ambulances came, and the paramedics did their thing. My brother and I met up with her at the hospital, and began the wonderful process of waiting in the ER.
We sat there, my mom writhing in pain, waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more after that. I became incredibly frustrated with the lack of care we were receiving. I cussed at a security guard. I yelled at a male nurse. It’s almost as if there were more important people there than us. Didn’t they know that we were more important than everyone else in that room, and that they should (logically) get us into a room faster than the others?
I am someone who feels that frustration a lot. It’s the frustration we feel when someone cuts in front of us in the grocery line. It’s the same frustration we feel when someone grabs our parking spot–the spot we’d been waiting patiently for with our blinker on. It all goes back to the same feeling of fairness–that weight in our heart that screams, “You’re not more important than me.”
Last night makes me wonder if I’m not living my life every day to prove my own importance. It makes me wonder if the art I engage in isn’t really just something to prove my importance to the world.
It may not be that bad, but it comes into play more than I care to admit. And it draws me to the feet of an invisible, inaudible Father who sees me, who knows me, and who thinks I’m important enough to give life to. And it’s at those unseen feet where I find true security, where I realize that the lost parking spot isn’t the real issue.
My mom is in a lot of pain, but will be fine. The ER will continue to rank people in order of importance. And I will continue this daily struggle until the unseen becomes seen, until the inaudible turns into thunderous whispers.
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